


You don't have to hold your head up high

by emavee



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Dehumanization, Electrocution, Gen, Hurt Peter Parker, Hypothermia, Kidnapping, Poison, Spiders-can't-thermoregulate trope, Torture (sort of), Vomit Mention, Whump, blood mention, handwavy knowledge of medical practice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-23
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-06 13:05:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16388264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emavee/pseuds/emavee
Summary: “When it gets too cold,” their captor says, ignoring Tony’s protests, “most cold-blooded creatures die because crystals form inside their veins at freezing temperatures. Did you know that, Stark? This is why its such a shame you stole from us. We could have done so much better. We could have learned so much more. You didn’t deserve our spider.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rexcorvidae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rexcorvidae/gifts).



> for prompt: "I'm a sucker for the "spiders cant thermoregulate" trope"
> 
> I didn't intend for this to get as heavy and whumpy as it did, but here we are... (i might go back and write a different, fluffier version)
> 
> (Title comes from "Round and Round" by Imagine Dragons)

He comes to slowly, head heavy and eyes blurry. The world around him is brown and grey and so incredibly dull and ugly that he knows it can’t be home.

 

It’s a basement, he realizes when his vision finally clears. Dirty cinderblock walls, cold cement floor, one big room with nothing in it but an arm chair, a side table, and a small lamp.

Oh, and the creepy metal box in the middle of the room.

 

It’s about three feet wide and four feet tall, made of metal walls and a thick glass front. It’s dark and empty inside, but a control panel on the outside blinks a steady yellow light. He doesn’t know what it’s meant for, but it can’t be good.

 

He’s handcuffed to a pipe against the far wall, stripped of his wrist gauntlet and his jacket and left on his ass. For now, his kidnappers are nowhere to be seen.

 

Wanting to get it over with, Tony shakes his arms back and forth, rattling the handcuffs, hopefully loud enough to be heard by whoever else is hiding in this ugly house. His plan works, and soon enough, two heavy pairs of footsteps descend the stairs to his right.

 

Standing in front of him now are two slimy-looking men. One is a big burly guy with dark curls and an unkempt beard. The other is a smaller man, more weaselly-looking, with ashen hair and a hooked nose. Both of them smile down at him, looking thrilled to see him awake.

 

“Hello, Mr. Stark,” the smaller man says. “It’s good to see you finally awake. You slept much longer than our other prize. Of course, that’s to be expected.”

 

Tony’s mouth goes instantly dry at the mention of their “other prize,” especially since he can take it as a hint that the other person is enhanced in some way. Most likely a faster metabolism to burn through whatever drugs were pumped into their systems.

 

Tony has a number of enhanced friends (or at least, enhanced acquaintances), but the idea of one in particular… one certain spider kid, being here, in this dirty basement with multiple psychopaths…

His blood runs cold.

 

“That’s nice,” Tony says curtly. He ignores his pounding heart. “Why don’t you go ahead and cut to the chase and tell me why I’m here.” The words earn him a pair of cold, glinting smiles.

 

“It’s simple, Mr. Stark,” the smaller guy said. “Revenge. And understanding.”

 

Tony resists the urge to roll his eyes. Of course. Another pair of mediocre villains who felt Tony Stark—or maybe the Avengers—had wronged them in some way or another. Of course.

 

“You robbed us, Stark,” the bigger one says. “Stole our handiwork.”

 

“And we can’t let that go. You understand.”

 

“No, asshole,” Tony spits back, irritated. “I don’t understand. I’ve never stolen anything. And even if I had, I wouldn’t want whatever you brainless low-lifes could come up with.”

 

“Of course the _great_ _Tony Stark_ would feel entitled to whatever he wants,” the small one growls. “You think you can just take our creation and use it for yourself? You think that because you have the wealth and the fame that you should get to steal our work and twist it for your own purposes?”

 

“You’ve lived a life of luxury,” says the other man. “Whatever you want, it’s yours. Whatever you want. Well, that ends now, Stark. And I do believe you’ll live to regret it.”

 

“Go get Thomas,” the small one says, never taking his snake eyes off of Tony. “Have him bring down our creation. Then we can begin our lesson.”

 

“What the fuck are you going on about?” Tony asks. He really, really doesn’t want to know what their creation is, but he’s growing irritated with their rambling nonsense.

 

He’s answered with a smug grin and the sound of heavy footsteps descending next to him. He twists, craning to see what’s coming, and his heart drops to his shoes.

 

The big guy comes lumbering into the room, dragging a far-too familiar teenage form. Another man—presumably Thomas—practically skips down the stairs after them. He’s short and stout and decked out in a lab coat that’s smeared with half-dried blood. Even more of the stuff lingers in the cracks of his hands.

 

Peter is awake, but somewhat dazed. The big guy grips his bicep with one hand and the kid has practically no choice but to try and scramble uselessly for some sort of purchase as he’s dragged. They must have him at least somewhat sedated. There’s a line of blood running down his arm from the crook of his elbow and judging by the lack of any other visible injuries, Thomas has probably taken a few pints. That probably doesn’t help with his alertness.

 

Peter’s eyes go wide when he spots Tony. “Mr. Stark!”

 

The guy lets go of Peter and practically throws him onto the floor. The kid lets out a tiny yelp as he falls, barely catching himself with his hands and pushing himself up onto his elbows. He lifts his head, meeting Tony’s eyes and there’s so much worry there that it makes Tony’s chest ache.

 

Tony can only think about the kid and how he’s going to somehow manage to keep him safe and _get him out of here_. He forgets he should be putting on a brave face, for Peter, for the assholes that have them, so they won’t know that there’s nothing in this world that could hurt Tony more than seeing that kid suffer.

 

“Did they hurt you, Mr. Stark?”

 

Of course they didn’t. That’s the whole idea. Peter’s there to suffer for Tony.

His stomach rolls with nausea.

 

Peter’s wide eyes are still searching him imploringly though, so he gives a tiny shake of his head, just to appease the kid. Peter seems to relax just slightly at the knowledge.

 

“Mr. Stark is very interested in knowing what’s going on here,” the smaller kidnapper says. He nudges Peter with his foot. Peter glares at the guy’s shoe in disgust and pushes himself into a slightly more upright position. “Tell him who we are,” he commands.

 

Peter just glares up at him, mouth planted firmly shut.

 

Then, the man pulls a remote out of his pocket and Peter’s expression turns to confusion.

 

“Go on, tell him who we are. Tell him who made you, spider. Tell him about how we’re the ones who made you.”

 

“No one made me,” Peter growls. “I’m not yours.”

 

“You are not Stark’s! _We_ made you, not him.”

 

“I’m not anyone’s! I’m a person!”

_Damn right, kid._

Tony smiles smugly at their captors.

 

“You are a laboratory creation,” the man says, his voice icy calm. “As your creators, we have the rights to you. We control you. Now, tell Stark whose work he’s stolen.”

 

“No one st—”

 

Peter’s cut off by the involuntary scream that rips through Tony as the guy presses a button on the remote. White hot agony is coursing through his bones, turning his nerves into livewires, and it isn’t until the pain recedes that Tony can realize that his cuffs are electrified.

 

Every one of his senses has turned to white, but as they slowly fade back in, he can hear someone yelling.

“—p! Stop! Please! Stop!”

 

“Tell him who made you, freak!”

 

“You made me!” Peter cries, and Tony looks up. The kid has his eyes squeezed shut, and his head is bowed, embarrassed. “I—I was made in a lab. You made me. Mr. Stark had nothing to do with it.”

 

“Tell him who we are,” the man hisses, leaning down to get right next to Peter’s face.

 

“Y-you’re Davis,” he stammers, pointing but still not looking at the man. “And—and that’s Smith,” he says, flailing a hand out to gesture towards the big guy. “And, uh, Thomas. You are responsible for my powers—”

 

Davis kicked the kid sharply in the side and Peter corrects himself. “You made me. Please, please don’t hurt Mr. Stark again. He didn’t do anything.”

 

“He stole—”

 

“He didn’t!” Peter says quickly. “I—It was all me. I—I ran away from Oscorp. I hid from you.” Tony isn’t sure how long he’s been out, but these assholes have clearly been drilling this bullshit into Peter’s head for a while. And the kid is telling them what they want to hear—horrible things, things he knows Peter’s struggled to not think about himself—just so they won’t hurt Tony.

 

Davis bobs his head side to side like he’s considering Peter’s words. “Of course, part of the blame is on you,” he agrees. “But Stark, he’s a man of science. He should have known not to try and reap the benefits of someone else’s hard work.”

 

“Hey, asshat,” Tony snaps. “He’s a person. He’s not mine, he’s not yours, he’s not anyone’s. Get that through your thick skulls and let us go now and maybe I won’t break every bone in your body.”

Peter shoots him a weak, appreciative smile.

 

“Oh, Stark,” Davis chuckles. “You’re wrong. We’ve been observing for months, like any good scientist would. We know more than you ever could. You don't deserve to use our creation when you don’t even understand it’s physiology.”

 

“You see,” Thomas adds, beginning to pace the room. “We’re incredibly fascinated with what characteristics our little pet spider shares with, well, actual arachnids. Over these months, I’ve made a wonderful number of observations. There are some obvious difference, of course: he has two legs, two eyes. He doesn’t generate webs, not biologically. But he climbs like a spider, senses things happening around him. And…” Thomas’s face morphs into a sinister smile as he locks eyes with Tony, “he has such a hard time thermoregulating.”

 

The basement is cold. Cold enough that Tony can feel goosebumps up and down his arms, cold enough for his fingers to start to cramp, but not cold enough to induce hypothermia. It won’t kill anyone, not even Peter.

 

“You missed all the signs, Stark,” Thomas continues. “The spider was shivering in early September, and you never put it together. Pathetic.”

 

The worst part is, he’s right. Peter _was_ shivering in September. He was wearing three sweaters and making Happy crank up the heat in the car and he even made a few off-hand comments to Tony about feeling colder than he used to. He’d had no idea.

 

Peter won’t meet his eyes and guilt gnaws at Tony's chest.

 

“Did you get everything you needed, Thomas?” Smith asks.

 

Thomas nods. “I did. We can proceed with the last phase.”

 

 _Last phase_. There’s a terrifying finality to it that sends Tony’s heart rate skyrocketing.

_No no no no_

 

“Last phase?” Tony demands. “What do you mean? Answer me, fuckwad!”

 

They’re laughing, all three of them, while Tony struggles against his chains and Peter scrambles on his hands and knees towards him, trying to reach him. Tony wants nothing more than to reach out and protect him.

 

Peter’s just a few feet from him when Smith leans down and scoops the kid up.

 

Tony is yelling obscenities and Peter is kicking and hitting, but whatever drugs are in his system have weakened him too much. Davis opens the little metal box and Smith chucks Peter in before slamming the door.

 

Thomas starts fiddling with the control panel, and when he presses one of the buttons, Tony can see Peter’s eyes go wide with fear.

 

“Just above freezing should be good to start,” Davis suggests. “Don’t want it completely freezing too fast.”

 

“Let him out!” Tony roars. He’s struggling hard enough against the chains now that he can feel the skin of his wrists beginning to rub raw.

 

“When it gets too cold,” Thomas says, ignoring Tony’s protests, “most cold-blooded creatures die because crystals form inside their veins at freezing temperatures. Did you know that, Stark? This is why its such a shame you stole from us. We could have done so much better. We could have learned so much more. You didn’t deserve our spider.”

 

He can still see Peter thanks to the glass door of the box. He’s crawled forward towards the glass, slapping and hitting uselessly at it. Already, Tony can see him starting to shiver. The fuckers took his jacket, left him in a thin, stupidly nerdy t-shirt and jeans.

 

Tony tries a different approach. “Since you know so much about him, you should be able to tell that leaving him in there will kill him. All your hard work, down the drain.”

 

Davis smirks. “We already gathered all our data. Thomas took enough blood and samples for us to continue our research long after the primary source is gone.”

 

“Gone? You…”

 

The man shrugs. “If we’re wrong, and the spider somehow survives this, we’ve some other theories we’d be interested in testing.”

 

“Like if it reacts to combustion the same way as a spider does,” Smith adds with a grin.

 

If Peter doesn’t freeze to death, _they’ll burn him alive_. And Tony will have to watch.

He tips his head to the side and spits out the bile that’s been slowly rising up his throat.

 

He should have been better about hiding Peter’s identity. He should have done more to protect him. He should have known people would be interested in the kid’s physiology.

He should have predicted this and put a stop to it before Peter could get hurt.

 

Tony meets Peter’s terrified gaze through the glass and tries to pour as much reassurance as he can into a look, but it’s hard when he’s so scared himself. Peter responds by trying to put on a brave smile, but it falls short when a violent shiver tears through him and leaves his facial muscles twitching.

 

“We’ll be back later,” Davis says. “Enjoy the front-row seat to our experiment, Stark. Few have such a privilege.”

 

“Go fuck yourselves,” Tony snarls as the three men stomp up the stairs. They don’t even glance back.

 

His glare falls as soon as they’re gone, and he turns his attention back to Peter trapped in that box.

 

“Can you hear me at all, kiddo?” He knows Peter hearing is good, but he doesn’t know anything about that box. Maybe it’s soundproof. Hopefully not.

 

Peter gives a sharp nod and mouths something—or more likely, tries to say something Tony can’t hear. He’s fallen back into a seated position now, running his hands up and down his arms to try and generate some semblance of heat.

 

The kid can hear him at least. He hasn’t been robbed of the ability to try and offer at least some verbal comfort or distraction to him.

 

“Alright, kid. I can’t hear you, but I’ll go ahead and run my big mouth for a while and you just focus on that, okay?” Peter nods again.

 

He talks for what feels like hours; however long it is for him, it must be ten times worse for the kid. Anything that pops into his head, he says it, unless the story has anything to do with cold or kidnapping, which is surprisingly hard to do. Maybe it’s because the terror he’s feeling for Peter is eclipsing most of his thoughts.

 

Eventually, their captors return. Smith opens the box and drags Peter out. The kid is shivering violently and too tired to fight back. The only thing keeping him on his feet is Smith’s tight grip on his arm. He can see Peter’s knees threatening to buckle.

 

Davis and Thomas stand in front of him, frowning and mumbling to each other. Thomas pokes and prods at the kid a little bit and jots down a few notes. Peter squirms weakly and twists his head away from the scientists who are looking at him like he’s not human, like he’s a piece of meat.

 

When they finish their examinations, Smith hauls Peter towards a column in the middle of the basement where they chain him up too. Tony can’t reach him, even if they both stretch out as far as possible. Peter's shivering hard enough to make the chains rattle and the sounds cut through Tony like a knife.

 

Now the chill in the air makes sense. Peter won’t be able to get warmed up, not fully.

It’ll only slow down the onset of hypothermia.

 

They’re torturing his kid. Slowly freezing him to death, just to prove that they can.

 

“Sick bastards,” Tony hisses. Like always, his insults have no effect on them.

 

Davis sets a plate of food and a glass of water in front of each of them before they leave again, just a tiny cup of soup. It’s not enough for Peter’s metabolism, and they have to know that, since they’re oh so knowledgeable about the world’s greatest spider-kid.

 

Tony doesn’t feel particularly hungry, in fact, he feels slightly nauseous, but Peter insists that he eat, and he’s never been able to say no to that kid for very long.

 

“I’m so sorry, kiddo,” Tony says, watching Peter shiver against the column.

 

“’S n-not your f-f-fault.” Slowly, the kid is lifting the cup of soup to his lips, going slow so he won’t spill any. He takes a tiny sip before his expression turns to a grimace.

 

“What’s wrong?” Tony asks quickly. “You okay, kid?”

 

“’S n-nothing. Just-t-t, s-soup’s cold-d. I was h-hoping…”

 

“It’s cold?” Tony’s own soup is hot, enough that it’s barely comfortable to hold the cup and he burnt the tip of his tongue.

 

But Peter nods. His soup is cold.

 

“Those sick fuckers,” Tony mutters under his breath. “Drink it anyway, Pete, okay? At least it’s something. You need all the nutrients you can get.”

 

Peter nods jerkily and takes a few more sips. Tony wishes he could trade with him, but they were too far apart. He would give anything to be a tiny bit closer to the kid. There’s a whole room between him and comforting his kid.

 

“Th-thank you,” Peter says. “F-for t-talking to m-me.”

 

“You don’t have to thank me for that, kiddo. In fact, you should be blaming me for all this.”

 

Peter shakes his head. “N-no. N-not everything is y-your fault-t, Mis’r St-tark. S-sometimes, bad things h-happen. We’ll get th-through this.”

 

God, his chest _aches_ at Peter’s optimism.

 

Peter reaches for the glass of water. Just like with the soup, while Tony’s is lukewarm, Peter’s is cold. He can see the condensation on the outside of the glass from across the room.

 

Peter sips it with a cringe but swallows it anyway. They can’t afford to add dehydration and starvation onto the list of the kid’s problems.

 

A sudden shiver tears through Peter and the glass tips, spilling water all down the front of the kid's shirt. He gasps at the added cold and drops the glass in surprise. It shatters on the ground in front of him.

 

“Sh-shit,” Peter hisses. He’s shivering harder now and curling in on himself to try and preserve some form of body heat. A strong shiver turns into a twitch and Peter’s hand skids along the floor involuntarily.

 

“Pete? You okay?”

 

Peter clutches his hand to his chest and already Tony can see lines of red running down his arm. Tentatively, he holds out his palm for Tony to see. He’s sliced his palm to ribbons on the shattered glass.

 

“M-my healing with t-take care of it,” he says quickly—the alarm on Tony’s face must have been evident because he yanks his hand back into his chest. “I’ll b-be okay. D-don’t worry. We’ll get through th-this.”

 

It’s hard to believe the kid’s smile when he’s pale and curled up on the floor surrounded by water, glass, and his own blood. It’s hard to ignore the horrible box sitting just a few meters away; the sight of it makes Tony’s blood boil. He can’t stand the thought of Peter going back in there.

 

God, Tony hates these chains. They’re keeping him from his kid. It physically hurts him, in his already damaged chest, to watch Peter curl up all alone and shake. The kid is breathing like he’s putting all his effort into every single breath—like they’re the one thing he can control. Breathing in the air of this room, warmer than the horrors of that box, is all Peter can do to lessen the pain and the cold.

 

When Tony talks now, he speaks only in endless reassurances, but he’s not sure Peter hears him.

 

It’s not much of a reprieve, Tony can tell. If Peter had stayed in the box, he would have likely been dead before the night was up. The temperature of this basement is enough to keep the kid alive for a little while longer, but Tony can tell it hurts. Peter is scared and in pain.

 

Still, whenever he catches Tony staring at him, he offers up a weak smile. It’s enough to keep Tony from going crazy.

 

At least, until those men come back.

 

\--

 

“Time for the next trial, Stark!” Davis says gleefully while Thomas and Smith throw Peter back in the box. “You’ll let us know if anything interesting happens, yeah?”

 

“You’re killing him,” Tony hisses. “Don’t do this. He’s a kid. You’re killing him.”

 

Davis shrugs. “Yeah. That’s the idea. Doesn’t feel so good to see your stuff taken away from you, does it?”

 

“He’s not yours!”

 

Another shrug. “Soon, it won’t matter. We’ll have all our data, you’ll have nothing. It’s better than I could have ever hoped for.” Tony hates the faraway gleeful expression on the man’s face. “Crank it down below freezing, Thomas,” he calls over his shoulder. “Enjoy your day, Mr. Stark.”

 

This time, Tony isn’t sure Peter is hearing him. Well, he’s probably hearing him, but Peter wears an unwavering expression of misery and fear and… confusion.

 

Sometimes Tony says something particularly loud or bizarre, Peter glances up, looking like he doesn’t remember where he is or what’s going on.

 

“I’m sorry, kid,” Tony says with a sigh. Peter looks at him through the glass, dazed and confused. “We—we’ve been taken. It’s all my fault. But you’re gonna be okay, okay? I’m going to get you out of this, I promise.”

 

Peter simply nods, and Tony’s chest constricts painfully.

 

When they finally pull him out again, Peter is shivering so violently that Smith can barely maintain his grip on him. He shifts so he’s holding both of Peter’s arms and the kid is slumped in front of him, unable to hold his own weight.

 

“Hmm,” Thomas says. “It’s not looking too good.” There isn’t a single echo of concern in his voice, just amusement.

 

“Mis’r Stark,” Peter mumbles, and the words are slurred.

 

They really are freaking psychopaths. Peter’s never looked younger in all three years Tony’s known him than this very moment. He’s thin and wilted and looks far closer to twelve than seventeen.

 

“Ya know,” Smith interjects, “my wife’s really into conservation and preservation and all that shit. Read an article about how if you don’t want spiders in your house during the winter, you should throw in the garbage. ‘S supposed to give ‘em a chance to stay warm.”

 

How do any of these monsters have spouses? They’re despicable human beings and—

 

“There’s a dumpster out back…” Davis grins.

 

No. They wouldn’t… _No._

 

“Don’t you dare,” Tony growls. They just laugh and drag Peter out. “Sick bastards!”

 

The kid manages to lift his head and meet Tony’s eyes. All the reassurance from before is gone, just the fear and the misery and now, humiliation and shame. He’s gone before Tony can try and comfort him.

 

They leave him food, but this time he’s too nauseous to eat it, and there’s no dying kid in front of him that he needs to set an example for.

 

No, he’s alone.

 

It’s the first time they’ve left Tony alone with nothing, and that means it’s the first time Peter’s alone.

 

With nothing else, with no kid to focus on, he can hear their captors upstairs laughing and—Tony’s blood burns—mocking Peter. Apparently, it’s goddamn hilarious how the kid was shaking and begging for his life.

  

He tries to tune them out, and eventually does when he starts planning everything he’s going to do to them as soon as he gets free of these cuffs. First, he’s going to get Peter safe and warm and make sure he knows that everything’s going to be okay. Then, he’s going to tear these sick idiots apart piece by piece and he’s going to savor it. How dare they hurt his kid? How dare they treat him like a freak? Like he’s less than human? How dare they touch a single hair on Peter’s head?

 

He imagines scenario after scenario, each one more painful and _satisfying_ than the last, and none of them are enough of a punishment for what they’re doing to Peter. He wants them to bleed and burn and _freeze._

 

Eventually he hears them stomping around upstairs. They’d fallen quiet for several hours, so Tony had assumed it was nighttime. If they were really serious, then they’d left the kid outside all night. It's late October, and although Tony has no idea if they were still anywhere near the city, the nights back home had already turned frigid.

 

When they drag the kid back downstairs, Tony is one dose of gamma radiation away from Hulking out of these chains and destroying everything in sight. Peter is, if it’s possible, shivering even harder than before. He can’t support his own weight and his legs just drag limply behind him. He doesn’t raise his head when they stop in front of Tony, just flicks his gaze towards him for a moment before looking back at the floor.

 

There’s dirt and grime all over his skin and clothes, in his hair and smearing his cheek. The basement reeks of garbage now and Tony’s stomach churns, not out of disgust, but anger.

 

“How was your night?” Smith asks, shaking Peter slightly. “Comfy?” He and the others chuckle.

 

Peter practically whimpers, turning his cheek so he’s no longer looking at the men or at Tony. Tears roll down his cheeks.

 

“Oh, kid,” Tony murmurs, quiet enough that their captors probably can’t discern what he’s saying, but Peter can. “I’m so sorry.”

 

The kid manages to get his feet under himself, and Tony sees a flicker of pride on his face. Tony is just as proud of him. After spending the night freezing in a dumpster, it’s a miracle the kid has any strength left in him.

 

Still, the asshats pull him towards the box. Peter tries to walk, but he stumbles, tripping on his own feet. Smith and Thomas laugh and push him back and forth between them, taking pleasure in the way the kid staggers around and scrambles to grab onto anything he can to steady himself.

 

“Stop it,” Tony growls lowly. “I swear to god, I’ll—”

 

They throw him in the box again, ignoring all of Tony’s threats and protests.

 

_He’s going to die. He’s dying he’s dying he’s dying_

 

Peter slumps at the back of the box and shivers and shivers and shivers until it stops. Tony is watching the kid so intently that he knows the exact moment Peter’s body slows to a still. He knows the exact moment it gave up on shivering.

 

He can see Peter’s eyelids drooping, but that kid, that _absolutely incredible, perfect_ _kid_ listens when Tony tells him to stay awake.

 

“Eyes open, Pete.” It’s nearly every other sentence now. For every MIT or Iron Man story Tony tells, he throws in at least five demands that the kid stay alert, keep holding on.

 

He tells the same story multiple times, partly because he only has so many family-friendly adventures to share, partly because he can tell Peter’s memory is failing him. Tony knows the symptoms of hypothermia. He’s taken first aid—watching out for a reckless teenage superhero makes you want to keep up with the basics—and he can see it, clear as day, even across the room and through a thick glass door. Confusion and memory loss, slurred speech, drowsiness, clumsiness—it’s a horrible cocktail of symptoms and Tony has no choice but to watch them all unfold. And not shivering anymore? That’s _bad._ That’s really, really _bad._

 

Peter likely won’t survive another box session. It’ll be a miracle—and a true testament to that kid’s incredible will—if he makes it through this one.

 

He’s slumped against the metal side of the box, his limbs hanging limp. Tony can tell he’s fighting hard to keep his eyes open and he’d proud. He’s never been more damn proud. Peter’s still fighting, even though Tony knows how easy it would be for him to let go.

 

He says it. “I’m so proud of you, kid.” There are tears in his eyes and a thick heaviness in his throat. “So, so proud, Pete.”

 

Peter, in all his pure goodness, smiles.

 

Then, the kid shifts, something Tony doesn’t know how he’s summoning the energy to do. Weakly, shivers gone and limbs scarily still, Peter lifts his arms. With what looks like extreme effort based on the way his face screws up, Peter points a single finger to his chest, then forms a heart with his hands, then turns and. Points at Tony through the glass.

 

_I love you._

 

They’ve taken everything, even Peter’s ability to speak for himself. It’s all too possible that Tony would never hear the kid’s voice again. He’d never hear Peter say those words.

 

“I love you too, kiddo,” Tony says. The tears flow freely now.

 

When Peter smiles, it’s both happy and sad, and as his face falls slack again, his eyelids start to slip downwards.

 

“Hey, hey, hey, Pete,” Tony interjects. “None of that. Eyes open, kiddo. Focus on me. Focus on staying awake.”

 

Peter mumbles something that Tony has no chance of making out, but he blinks his eyes open anyway. For a moment, the effort makes him go cross-eyed, but he manages to steady himself.

 

“Good job, kid,” Tony says. His own tears blur his vision. “I’m so proud.”

 

\--

 

Tony knows the symptoms of hypothermia, so he knows this isn’t right.

Something is very, very wrong with Peter.

 

When their captors come back and pull Peter from the box, he’s still and limp, but alive.

 

If he’s being truly honest with himself, Peter shouldn’t be alive anymore. He should have died in the box. Tony has no idea how he’s still alive, especially since the shivering has already stopped. His body should have shut down during that last session.

 

Peter sits up against the column, his whole body swaying. At first Tony thinks it’s just the drowsiness that comes with dying.

 

Then, “Mis’r Stark. ‘M dizzy.” Peter slips to the side, catching himself on one elbow before his arm gives out and he drops all the way onto the floor. He stays there on his side, eyes focusing on one thing for a while before he has to blink, then shifting to stare at something else. Everything about him is slow and heavy.

 

“It’s okay, Pete. It’s okay. It’s all gonna be okay.”

 

“Feels _wrong_ , Mis’r Stark.”

 

“I know, kiddo, I know.”

 

“No,” Peter insists. “Different. Wrong. Hurts.”

 

“What’s wrong, Peter? What hurts?”

 

Peter frowns. “Leg. Keeps cramping.”

 

Okay, that’s strange, but maybe a result of the cold and the shivering. Peter’s physiology is still mostly a mystery to him.

 

“Okay, kiddo. You—”

 

He’s cut off by Peter groaning. He writhes on the floor, twisting and arching his back before curling back into a fetal position. His leg drags through some of the broken glass that remains there, but Peter doesn’t even seem to notice.

 

“What is it? Peter? What’s wrong?”

 

“M’ back. Like—like someone’s stabbing me. Mis’r Stark… _hurts._ ”

 

“It’s okay, Pete. It’s gonna be okay.” He can’t keep saying that. Those words are losing their meaning. They don’t mean anything anymore because no matter how many times he says it, Peter is dying, a cruel, slow, painful death, right in front of him, and he can’t do anything. _Nothing_ is okay.

 

“Make it stop!” Peter cries. “Please!”

 

Tony tries not to sob. That’s not what the kid needs, but… but…

 

He can’t handle this. It’s killing him, tearing him apart to watch this. “I’m so sorry, Peter. I—”

 

Tony tugs on the cuffs with every ounce of strength he has left, but nothing he tries gets him closer to where Peter lays sobbing. “I’m sorry, kid,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry.”

 

Peter cries in the otherwise quiet basement for a while before the sounds are suddenly cut off. He makes a choking noise and Tony’s attention snaps towards him, not ready to watch whatever horror is about to unfold, but willing to, since the kid has to go through it.

 

Peter throws up, still laying on his side, unable move anything else. When he finishes, he curls in on himself even harder, groaning and breathing too fast to bring in any real air.

 

“Slow down, Pete,” Tony says. “You gotta breathe.”

 

Peter stares at him blankly as he hyperventilates and shudders. His lips have turned blue.

 

“Breathe, Peter,” Tony says, a little more forcefully this time. “Slow down. You need to breathe.”

 

He speaks slow comforting words until Peter’s breathing evens out just slightly. It’s not perfect, but Peter can speak again, so he knows the kid is at least getting some oxygen now. Still, the blue tint to his lips don’t fade, and fear crawls up Tony’s throat.

 

“’M okay,” Peter murmurs, sounding like he’s partially trying to convince himself. “I—” He blinks, hard, and an alert wave of horror washes over the kid’s expression. “Mis’r Stark?”

 

He sounds panicked. The hyperventilating is starting to return.

 

“It’s alright, Pete. It’s okay. I’m right here. What’s wrong, bud? Tell me what’s going on.”

 

“Can—can’t see,” Peter chokes out. “I can’t see. Evr’ything’s blurry, Mis’r Stark. I can’t see—I can’t see you.”

 

_What’s happening to his kid?_

 

“I’m right here, Pete. I promise you. I’m right here. You can still hear me, right?” Peter nods. “Alright, bud. Use that superhearing of yours. I’m right here.”

 

“Blurry,” Peter mumbles. He watches as the kid squeezes his eyes closed for a moment before opening them and blinking rapidly. He watches as the kid sees nothing and is left stifling a sob.

 

He knows what Peter’s senses mean to him. Sometimes, they're the source of debilitating sensory overload, but they’re also a constant that Peter’s become used to having. He used to have terrible eyesight, before the bite. Wore lenses as thick as coke bottles—he’d shown them to Tony one day and they’d both had a good laugh.

 

He knows how heavily Peter has started relying on his new senses. They’re with him, day in, day out. Losing them, even one of them, it’s taking away another piece of Peter’s freedom. At this point, he’s got just about nothing left.

 

How long until he can no longer speak? Until he can no longer will himself to move or to breathe? How long until his eyes slip closed and there’s nothing left of the kid at all?

 

Tony talks and talks, because if Peter can’t see, he won’t dare let a single moment be filled with silence. He doesn’t want Peter to let go. He’s not ready to say goodbye. He can’t do it. So, he’ll give Peter one last thing to cling to, something to anchor him until the end.

 

If he can’t hold his kid as he dies, he’s gonna at least give him _something._

 

It scares the shit out of both of them when Peter’s body suddenly seizes. Peter sobs, weak and terrified. Tony can only stare. It’s the first time he’s gone silent in what feels like hours. He can’t help it.

 

He feels so damn lost.

 

Tony hates not knowing what’s going on in front of him. Before, this was something he couldn’t fix—which hurt enough already—but now he can’t even understand what’s happening to the kid. Blue lips, blue fingernails, shallow breathing, the pain—he doesn’t know what any of it means.

 

He can’t plan. He can’t even try and accept Peter’s death. It’s some sick nightmare he can’t wake up from.

 

It’s not long before Peter’s goes completely silent, any weak laughter or comments on Tony’s anecdotes long gone. He’s stopped responding to Tony, just lying there, his whole body convulsing every few minutes. Tony doesn’t know what any of it means, but he’s staring at a shell of Peter now.

 

\--

 

The men come back and they’re going to put Peter in again. He’s going to die in that box this time, Tony knows it. He can’t let that happen. _He can’t._ If Peter dies, a piece of Tony goes with him. He won’t recover. If Peter dies, he’s taking Tony’s heart with him.

 

“You want fame, right? Money? Tech? Glory? I can get that for you. Anything you want, I’ll do it. Please, just spare him. Let him go. Let the kid live.”

 

Davis stalks across the room to Peter, kneeling down beside the kid.

 

“Thomas,” he says, “come look at his.” Peter convulses again. “This isn’t hypothermia.”

 

Thomas joins Davis next to Peter. He eyes the puddle of sick next to the kid and pokes a finger into a space of his back, where Peter had complained about the night before, and Peter groans in pain. “Hmm,” Thomas says with a frown. “Looks a lot like antifreeze poisoning. Saw it in my niece once. When it gets cold, spiders do produce a sort of antifreeze to lower the temperature at which their body freezes. Guess our little spider does that too.”

 

“Huh. Who knew.”

 

“Did you know that, Stark?” Thomas asks him. “It’s fascinating, really. In trying to keep warm, to save itself from dying, it poisoned itself.”

 

“Looks like we won’t even need another freezer round,” Davis says. “We can just settle in and wait.”

 

“I’ll get the popcorn,” Smith grins.

 

“Come on!” Tony shouts. “Anything you want—just let me help him! Let me out so I can—Let me help him! _Please._ _Anything_ you want. Hell, take my whole company, just let him live.”

 

He might as well not even be speaking. Complete and utter helplessness crashes into Tony in painful waves, and he can feel himself being dragged under.

 

Peter, suddenly not an unresponsive form on the floor, rolls to his side and empties what little is remaining in his stomach. Coughing and gagging, Peter sobs as every muscle in his body suddenly seizes.

 

Poison. Peter’s own body is poisoning him. And Tony can’t do anything but watch.

 

“Let me… Let me hold him, at least,” Tony begs. “I can’t do anything to save him, but he—he’s a kid. He doesn’t deserve to die alone. Just bring him to me.”

 

Thomas whirls on him with a smirk. “You expect us to just give what you took from us right back to you? You think you deserve that?”

 

“He’s just a kid! He didn’t do anything wrong and he doesn’t deserve to die alone. Please.”

 

“All experiments have to end some time,” Thomas said with a shrug. “You shouldn’t have gotten emotionally attached to the subject. It’s not good practice.”

 

“You know what’s not good practice?” Tony hisses. “Killing innocent kids.”

 

“When that spider bit Peter Parker, he ceased being an innocent kid. He became something not human, and he lost the rights of one. Peter Parker no longer exists, and you, Stark, were only pretending to know him.”

 

“He’s not your experiment! He’s a kid.”

 

Thomas shrugs again. “I suppose I should be a tad upset that you refuse to understand, but it makes it significantly more satisfying to see you so upset, I must admit.”

 

His stomach twists dangerously. Thomas grins and steps back away from Tony, eying him with a look of satisfaction, before turning and settling into a chair between Smith and Davis. They plan to quite literally watch Peter die.

 

“It’s okay, Pete,” Tony whispers to him.

 

_It’s not okay it’s not okay it’s not okay_

_It will never be okay again_

 

“I love you.” Peter doesn’t respond. He can’t. His kid simply whimpers as his whole body convulses again and again.

 

Tony watches as he goes still. Peter’s head rolls to the side, coming to face Tony. Somehow, his eyes are still open, blinking at Tony. He can see pain etched in every facet of the kid’s face, fear welling in his unfocused eyes.

 

Tony won’t look away from him. It’s the last thing he can offer Peter. He hopes it’s at least some form of comfort.

 

“I’m here,” Tony says softly. He doesn’t know if Peter can even see him or not. He still won’t look away. “I’m right here, Pete. It’s okay.”

 

_It’s not. It never will be._

 

Peter’s eyes are slipping closed, and Tony knows it’ll be for the last time. Their captors are watching, but Tony doesn’t care. For now, it’s just him and Peter. Nothing else matters.

Later, he’ll deal with them. He’ll tear them apart, piece by piece.

 

For now...

“I love you, kid.”

 

Peter doesn’t move.

 

Then, there’s a whir, and the wall to Tony’s left explodes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the end, Peter wasn’t moving. He wasn’t shivering, he wasn’t responding. 
> 
> He wasn’t Peter.

In all the years Peter’s been in his life, there has always been movement. Peter was always pushing himself, jumping at the chance to do more, crossing state lines and riding on airplanes and sprinting to put his life on the line if it meant someone else had the chance to escape. And, on a more microscopic level, the things Tony only saw once they grew closer, he was passionate and hyperactive and anxious and fidgety. He bounced his leg and paced the room and talked with his hands, he stayed up too late and got up too early and threw himself into idea after idea with renewed vigor that Tony wouldn’t have managed to muster on his best days.

 

Tony had found it exhausting before he found it endearing.

You never truly know how much you love something until it’s gone, huh.

 

Because now, there’s only stillness.

 

At the end, Peter wasn’t moving. He wasn’t shivering, he wasn’t responding.

He wasn’t Peter.

 

Anything. Tony would take literally anything, any movement, just something to remind his heart that Peter’s still alive. By some godforsaken miracle.

 

(Half of that miracle was James Rhodes. Tony didn’t think he ever loved Rhodey any more than when he came blasting through that wall. Well, until he started beating the shit out of those Oscorp asshats. That had been pure art to witness.)

 

(The other half was Helen Cho. Goddamn that woman. Truly incredible.)

 

But now, Peter’s in a hospital bed, small and asleep and far too still. The heartrate monitor is beeping steadily, but it does little to comfort Tony. He’s already seen the kid be stripped of everything he is. He’s already watched as Peter’s life faded away without actually dying.

 

Peter’s heart never actually stopped, but Tony had watched him brush so close to death that he thought he was gone for good. It’s hard to believe he’s still here.

 

If he would just move, just a finger twitch or an eyelid flutter, Tony would be able to breathe again, think again, eat again, sleep again. He needs a sign of life, something, so he can start to function again. He’s so fucking tired of the stillness.

 

The stillness makes him small. The stillness makes him empty. The stillness doesn’t make him dead but it certainly doesn’t make him living.

 

They got him back to compound, heart still beating, and immediately the kid was torn away from him and swallowed up by a seemingly endless stream of medical personnel and equipment.

 

Tony has to explain to Helen Cho what happened. He tells her about the antifreeze poisoning, even though he has no idea if that’s even right. He’s taking the word of psychopaths. But apparently, they were right. That idea only barely has time to register in Tony’s mind before Helen is jamming a needle into his kid.

 

Fomepizole, she says. The most common treatment for antifreeze poisoning. Hopefully it works.

 

“It’s not exactly like normal antifreeze poisoning,” Helen explains as she rushes around Peter’s hospital room. “Since his body is producing it. But it seems similar enough that the fomepizole should help. And we’ll have to get him warm. I’m not quite sure completely what we’re working with, but it stands to reason that if we can warm him up, then his body will stop releasing the antifreeze chemicals and we can go from there.”

 

The next few hours are terrifying. Peter now has an oxygen tube and an IV and heated blankets and that useless heartrate monitor. They do hemodialysis too. It helps rewarm the blood, Helen explains.

 

“And he’ll need it if he’s taken sufficient damage to his kidneys. You said he had back pain?”

 

Tony nods.

 

Helen sighs. “That would be his kidneys. Hemodialysis is typically used when there’s an 85% loss of function. The timing of the pain and onset of poison in his system should correspond with total kidney failure, but his healing probably helped slow the damage. And, even better, once we help him fight through the hypothermia and the initial poisoning, his healing should take care of his kidneys. I have every reason to believe that they will be restored back to their full function.”

 

“What does that mean?”

 

Helen offers a gentle smile. “I think he’s going to be okay. We just have to give him some time to get warm and fight through the toxins. His body took a large toll, so he will most likely be asleep for a while, but for now, we just wait and let the treatments do their thing.”

 

“He—he stopped shivering. I thought he was dead. How—” Tony cuts himself off with a sound that’s half gulp, half gag. _How is he not dead?_ He doesn’t want to ask that. He can’t ask that.

 

“My best guess?” Helen says, “As his body started shutting down from the cold, his spider side pulled out its last resort.”

 

“The antifreeze?”

 

“The antifreeze,” she nods. “Most likely, he started producing it even before the symptoms appeared. It’s probably what kept him alive so long below freezing, why he stayed awake for so long after he stopped shivering. But as he was continually exposed to below freezing temperatures, and he wasn’t getting warm, and his body had to keep producing more and more antifreeze to keep him alive. The cold itself wasn’t killing him anymore, but the excess chemicals in his system were.”

 

Tony was only allowed in the room because they made the initial mistake of trying to get him checked out too, and once they determined he was fine—he really was, stupidly, _ridiculously_ fine—he downright refused to leave. It would have taken nothing short of the full Iron Legion to pull him away from Peter’s bedside.

 

It’s only now that Peter’s finally stable that they let May in. She’s been waiting for four days to see her son.

 

They were gone for a little more than three days, that’s what Rhodey tells him. With no natural light in that basement, time became associated with Peter’s suffering as opposed to the position of the sun in the sky. Peter freezing in that box became his days, Peter chained to the column became his nights. His only indicator of passing time was how much pain Peter was in, or how close he was to dying.

 

He wasn’t sure how to return to normal, not when Peter still hadn’t stirred.

 

He and May both take up constant vigil in Peter’s hospital room.

 

“I’m sorry,” Tony says, breaking the quiet of the room.

 

May glances up from her lap and meets his gaze with a frown. “What are you sorry for?”

 

“This is my fault. They—they wanted to hurt me. And I should have been better about—”

 

“Oh, can it, Stark,” May says, and a smile tugs at the corner of her mouth.

 

“But—”

 

“No buts.” Tony immediately shuts his mouth and May’s expression softens. “Tony, I know that kid better than I know myself.” She turns to look down at her sleeping nephew and squeezes Peter’s limp hand. “If anything, he held on even longer because of you. I don’t know what happened there, not really, but I know you talked to him. I know you kept him alive.”

 

“May…”

 

She locks eyes with him again. Her smile is soft and sad, but there’s a hardness behind her eyes that’s no doubt been lingering for days. “I wanted to thank you. Don’t belittle what you did for him just because you feel helpless. You did everything you could. You did more than you know. Thank you, Tony.”

 

He nods dumbly and reaches out to take Peter’s other hand. He squeezes it gently and then hates it when there’s no response, but he holds on nonetheless.

 

\--

 

They have the asshat psychopaths in some sort of custody. For the past three days, Tony had fantasized about what he would do to make their lives hell, but now he can’t imagine leaving Peter’s side.

He delegates the task to Rhodey.

 

Turns out, when they’re not torturing innocent teenagers, they aren’t very tough at all. Rhodey gets information out of them with minimal effort, an honestly, Tony wishes they had put up a better fight.

 

Rhodey relays everything to him in record time.

 

“Andrew Davis, Liam Smith, and Curt Thomas,” he says. “All former Oscorp employees.”

 

“Former?” Tony asks.

 

Rhodey nods. “Thomas was in R&D, worked as an experimental biologist, at least until he was fired in April of 2013 for not following ethical procedure.”

 

“2013?” Tony echoes. “Peter hadn’t even been bitten yet.”

 

Rhodey nods. “Mhm. He and Davis were old pals. He apparently got into the creepy mad science stalker business after Davis and Smith recruited him. They needed someone who could understand Peter’s physiology.”

 

“What about the other two then?”

 

“Smith was a night security guard. He’s apparently the one figured out Oscorp was even connected to Spider-Man. Not sure how since he’s dumber than a box of rocks. He got fired in March for sneaking around where he shouldn’t have, trying to find Spider-Man’s identity from security footage. Davis was a radiation technician working on the project that hit Pete’s spider. He quit out of the blue seven months ago, right after Smith was fired.”

 

“Not a coincidence, I presume,” Tony says dryly.

 

Rhodey rolled his eyes. “Of course not. Smith called up Davis, Davis called up Thomas, and the three of them went right to work being creepy, evil jagweeds.”

 

“So, let me get this straight,” Tony says, “none of them actually had anything to do with Peter getting his powers?”

 

Rhodey shakes his head. “Nothing. And even if—and it’s a pretty big if—Davis was involved in the project that affected the spider, all he would have done was push a button. No one intended for Spider-Man to be born.”

 

Anger is churning hard in Tony’s veins, making his hands shake and his vision tunnel. His wrists, still torn apart from tugging on the chains, burn.

_There was no real reason for any of this._

 

“So, what?” Tony spits. “Why do this? They kept going on and on about making Pete and how they owned him and all that bullshit. Wha—How? Why? How?”

 

“They’ve been watching the kid for seven months, Tones. They have extensive amounts of data on him, but also on you. They fed off of each other’s bitter, jaded energy and somehow formed the delusion that because they knew Spider-Man better than anyone else in the world, they had claim to him.”

 

“But that’s—”

 

“I know, Tones,” Rhodey says, setting a gentle hand on his shoulder. It does very little to bring him back to reality, but he tries hard to focus on the steady pillar of comfort and grounding that Rhodey has always been. “I know. It’s complete bullshit. But I’m telling you what was going on in their heads, crazy as it is. They saw Spider-Man, something that had been made on their home turf and they figured out his identity. The more they learned about him, the more entitled they felt. Tony, they’ve been watching him for so long that they just might be the world’s leading experts—”

 

“That’s bullshit,” Tony snaps. He doesn’t mean to get this angry with Rhodey, but it’s getting to him. They hurt his kid because they felt jaded and entitled and smart for the first time in their pathetic lives. They tried to kill a kid for absolutely no goddamn reason. “They don’t know him. They don’t know that kid, Rhodey. They—"

 

“I know,” Rhodey reassures. “But they saw something that they felt they understood better than anyone. And they saw him with you, a rich guy who can have pretty much whatever he wants. To them, they were doing all the hard work and you were reaping the benefits.”

 

“Peter isn’t a fucking science experiment,” he growls. “He—he’s my kid. He’s a kid, Rhodey. He’s a kid.” He’s shaking now, bad, and his eyes are burning with unshed tears.

 

“I know.”

 

“I want them dead.”

 

“I know,” Rhodey says. “I know. Me too. And trust me, it’s nothing more than what they deserve. But we can’t do that.”

 

“Well, why fucking not?” He wants them dead. He wants to be the one to kill them. Once Peter is better, he’ll do it, and he’ll take his sweet time too.

 

“You can’t do that, Tones,” Rhodey says. “You’d be a murderer.”

 

“I don’t—”

 

“You want Peter to have to visit you in prison when he wakes up? Or do you want to be here for him, right here, and let the authorities handle this?”

 

He knows Rhodey’s right. And he’s already beginning to get antsy having been away from Peter’s side for so long.

 

He knows, logically, that most likely the kid’s condition has changed very little in the twenty minutes he’s been in the hall drinking crappy coffee while Rhodey breaks it down, but some annoyingly optimistic piece of him keeps chirping that Peter could wake up at any minute, any second—and he wants to be there when that happens.

 

He couldn’t be there for Peter while he was dying, but he’ll be damned if he misses a single moment of his recovery.

 

“Go be with your kid,” Rhodey says knowingly, shoving his shoulder lightly. Tony nods and all but runs back to Peter’s room.

 

Happy’s there when he gets back, sitting beside May and lending a comforting presence while she waits. Apparently, he’s been a fairly steady presence for May since Tony and Peter first went missing.

 

Happy had been waiting for them, when they were taken—gassed in the elevator before they made it to the waiting car. Happy had, once unable to locate Peter and Tony, leapt straight into action, making sure Pepper and May were safe and getting Rhodey on the case. He stayed with May at the compound while Rhodey scowered the world for her nephew.

 

Damn, if Tony were going to get kidnapped, he couldn’t think of a better person than Happy Hogan to look after the ones left behind. He did everything right.

 

The signs of stress and worry still linger on the other man’s face, for obvious reason. Happy cares about Peter, far more than he lets on. He’s been telling May stories of the stupid, dorky things Peter has done over the past few months, managing a few laughs out of her. Still, just like Tony and May, the bags linger under his eyes and he’s shaky on his feet.

 

In this room, they mourn but don’t mourn. It’s like time and energy and everything in the world are standing still and all they can do was wait for it to move again.

 

\--

 

Tony’s always been impatient.

He’s stubborn, too, so he can wait forever, but that doesn’t mean he has to be happy about it.

 

Right, now he just wants nothing more to see Peter’s eyes open.

 

The oxygen tube is out, replaced with a nasal cannula, and they’ve almost stopped the hemodialysis treatments for his kidneys. He no longer needs the warm saline and heated blankets—he’s no longer producing antifreeze.

 

The doctors, Happy, May—they keep saying that’s it’s just a matter of waiting. Peter’s only been at the compound for two days, but already Tony’s been reduced to a bundle of anxious impatience.

 

“Why isn’t he awake yet?” Tony asks, coming to a halt when he realizes he’s been pacing the room again.

 

May shoots him a wry smile. “You know how he is. He always sleeps in. This is normal.”

 

“What if…” Tony falls into the chair on Peter’s other side and stares down at his blank face. “What if he doesn’t know that it’s safe to wake up this time?”

 

May’s expression morphs into something harder to read, something much sadder. The hand that isn’t intertwined with Peter’s reaches over to rest gently on Tony’s arm.

 

“He’s okay, Tony,” she says softly. “He’s gonna be okay.”

 

“You should talk to him,” Tony suggests. “You—Maybe your voice will help him come back.”

 

“Sure,” May says with a smile. “You should talk too, though. He’ll want to know that we’re both here, waiting. He’ll want to wake up surrounded by family.”

 

Tony’s throat tightens considerably at her words and his own voice fails for the first time in days, cut off by the lump of emotions.

 

“Hi, Peter,” May starts. “Hi, honey. You’re safe now, baby. I’m so sorry you’ve been hurting, but everything’s going to be okay now, okay? Just—whenever you’re ready, baby, we’ll be here. I know you like to sleep, but whenever you’re ready, let’s get those eyes open, okay? And—and we’ll make pancakes and I’ll try really, really hard not to burn them. I need you to actually keep your eye on them this time, alright? Last time you messed up, buddy-boy. You weren’t watching. I need your full attention this time, mister.”

 

She swallows hard and continues. “But you’re safe now, baby. I’m here and—and Tony’s right here, too. I know you’ve been worried about him, but he’s all good. We’re just waiting on you, Petey.”

 

She looks over at Tony encouragingly and he realizes that she’s expecting him to talk now, which is sufficiently difficult with the lump in his throat. It takes a few tries for his words to actually come out as more than croaks. “Yeah, kiddo, just waiting on you. I know—I know it’s been a tough few days and I’m so proud of you for holding on—I’m so, so proud, Pete. I—I think that was the strongest I’ve ever seen you and god, kid, you never cease to amaze me. You’re safe now, Pete. No more poison or cold. You’re safe and warm here and we love you, okay kid? So just go ahead and come on back to us. I’m going a little crazy here, bud.”

 

He laughs wetly, and May squeezes his hand in her own. Unsurprisingly, Peter doesn’t stir, but somehow it still feels like part of the weight has been lifted off of his chest. He doesn’t know why—it did nothing, Peter remains unconscious and still—but it does. He feels lighter, like now Peter knows. They put out the beacon and the kid is going to use it to find his way home.

 

He and May take turns talking, and time seems to move a little faster.

 

\--

 

When Peter finally wakes up, the first thing he does is get crushed by his aunt’s hug.

The second thing he does is ask about Tony.

 

“Right here, kiddo,” Tony says, appearing beside May. Why was he so far away? “Hey. How are you?”

 

Peter’s smile is weak, and Tony can tell he’s still tired even after his three-day nap. He won’t remain conscious for very long, but it’s okay because it’s something. It’s another necessary step towards recovery.

 

“Tired,” Peter says. “Floaty.”

 

“Hmm. Okay. No pain though?”

 

“Nope. I’m all good, Mr. Stark. We made it out?”

 

“Yeah, Pete. We did. You did so well, bud. I was just telling May how strong you were.”

 

The kid flushes and May laughs lightly. “It’s nothing I didn’t already know, sweetheart,” May says, cupping his cheek. “I’m so proud of you, baby.”

 

“You’re okay, right Mr. Stark?” Peter asks, gazing up at him. “They didn’t hurt you?”

 

“No, Pete. I’m all good. They didn’t even touch me.”

 

“They didn’t shock you again, did they?” He’s looking up at him with such an earnest expression that Tony’s incredibly glad that he doesn’t have to lie to the kid.

 

“No, Pete. All good. Just worried about you, bud. I promise.”

 

Peter nods, obviously satisfied with that answer and lets his eyes drift closed again.

 

\--

 

Tony and May take turns staying with Peter while he sleeps. He could get some shut-eye in the semi-comfortable hospital chair that’s been pulled up right next to Peter, but he hasn’t been sleeping well, for fairly obvious reasons, so Tony simply leans his head back, dozes slightly, and listens to the sound of Peter’s heart rate monitor.

 

It’s close to two in the morning when, next to him, Peter jerks suddenly awake with a gasp. For a moment, he thrashes wildly, before Tony sits up alert and catches his wrists.

 

“Whoa, Pete. Hey, you’re good. You’re good. It’s okay. You’re safe.”

 

“Mis’r Stark?” Peter asks, pushing himself up to a seated position and staring up at him.

 

“Hey, Pete. Hi.”

 

He blinks and sniffs loudly, and although Tony can see his eyes shining, no tears spill down his cheeks.

 

“”M sorry I woke you,” Peter murmurs. “I’m okay.”

 

“Hey, it’s okay, bud. What happened? What’s wrong?”

 

“Just—just a nightmare. I’m okay now.”

 

“You’re safe, Pete,” he says, ruffling his hair gently. “You’re safe. Do you want to talk about it?”

 

“I… I’m okay. It was just… just the box again. I was in it and I couldn’t get out and I was all alone. You—you weren’t there. But I’m okay now. I’m fine.”

 

“Hey, Pete, it’s okay to have nightmares. It’s okay to be scared. God knows I was terrified. I’ve my own fair share of bad dreams.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Yeah, Pete. But it’s okay. You’re okay. Do you want to talk about it?”

 

“I mean, there’s not much to talk about— But… I…” Peter stares at his lap, picking at the hem of his blanket. “I was so scared,” he admits. “I thought I was going to die.”

 

“Peter…”

 

“But I had to stay awake. It hurt, and I was so, so tired, but I had to. I didn’t want to die. And… And I—I knew they were keeping you there to watch, and—and I was scared of what would happen if I died.” He looks up suddenly, wide, determined eyes meeting Tony’s. “I didn’t want to leave you. They might have killed you, Mr. Stark. I—I couldn’t…”

 

“Pete…” Tony leans over and runs a hand through his curls. He doesn’t know what to say.

 

Selfless, brave Peter, trying to stay alive so they both would. It’s… unthinkable. He can’t even begin to comprehend this kid.

 

And he can’t find it in him to believe it, either.

 

He’ll never tell Peter, but he knows that’s not true. They wouldn’t have killed him, even after Peter died. They wanted him to live with it. They wanted to prove that they were smart and right and that Tony couldn’t stop them. They wanted Tony to carry around that failure for as long as possible.

 

They wouldn’t have killed him, and it would have hurt so much worse.

 

But he’ll never tell Peter that.

It would be an insult to how stupidly self-less and wonderful this kid is.

 

“I’m so sorry, Peter,” he says instead.

 

Peter cracks a watery smile. “I thought we agreed this wasn’t your fault. You kept me alive, Mr. Stark. You talked to me and you made me want to stick around as long as possible. You made it impossible to give up.”

 

He tugs Peter into his arms and the kid winds his hands up to grip Tony’s shoulders in response.

 

“You’re such a good kid, Pete. I’m so, so proud of you.”

 

“Love you, Mr. Stark,” Peter murmurs into his shoulder.

 

“I love you too, kiddo. So much.”

 

Peter sighs, and Tony helps him lay back down, keeping one of Peter’s small hands in his own.

 

He’ll be there if he wakes up again. He’ll be there for anything Peter needs.

He'll always be there.

 

\--

 

A week after Peter gets released from the med bay, May has to work several late shifts, so Peter stays the weekend at the compound with Tony. They’re settled in to binge watch, Peter tucked into his side, sipping something warm from an Iron Man mug. Tony assumes it hot chocolate. He keeps a stash just for Peter and the kid’s been going to town on it ever since getting released from the med bay. He supposes the warmth is comforting.

 

Halfway through the show, he glances sideways at Peter, just to check. He’s always checking now.

 

Peter takes a sip from his mug and makes a face but doesn’t say anything. Tony frowns, leaning over just slightly. It doesn’t quite look like hot chocolate. He sniffs. Coffee.

 

“FRIDAY,” Tony interrupts, “pause.”

 

“Wha—” Peter splutters. “Hey! Why’d you do that? We were just getting to the good part!”

 

“Kid it’s,” Tony checks his watch, “8:42. Why are you drinking coffee? You’re never going to be able to sleep if you have caffeine right now. You’re a smart kid, I feel like you should know this.”

 

“It’s decaf?” Peter tries. It’s a truly pitiful attempt.

 

“Wrong answer,” Tony says. “We don’t have decaf in this house.”

 

“Yeah, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that,” Peter says. “It’s really not healthy for you to be consuming that much caffeine.”

 

He levels an unamused look at the kid. It’s a pitiful attempt at deflection.

 

“You don’t even like coffee,” Tony says. “Why are you drinking this?”

 

Peter fidgets, like he always does when he’s nervous. He wrings his hands and scratches behind his ear and looks at anything except for Tony. He tries to take another drink from the mug, but Tony carefully snatches it away, ignoring all protests. He sets it on the table on his other side, far out of Peter’s reach, before returning all of his focus on the kid.

 

“Come on, Pete. Lay it on me. You gotta tell me what’s going on, bud.”

 

“I don’t…” Peter huffs, obviously frustrated.

 

“Is it nightmares?” Tony asks, setting a gentle hand on Peter’s arm. “It’s okay, Pete, we can get through—”

 

“It’s not nightmares,” Peter says. “Well, sometimes it is, but… but…” He blinks with shining eyes and Tony is so ready to just tug the kid into his arms and wipe the tears away for good. Peter just has to tell him what’s happening. “I don’t like feeling tired.”

 

Tony blinks, tries to register, and blinks again.

 

“I know it’s irrational,” Peter says quickly, before Tony can speak, “but before, I—I knew that—that if I fell asleep, I wouldn’t wake up. It’s hard to—to not feel that way anymore… even though I know I’m safe. I know I’m safe, Mr. Stark, and it’s so stupid, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

 

Tony’s hugging Peter before he even realizes he’s moved. Peter seems surprised for just a second before his hands come up to rest on Tony’s back, holding on for dear life and sobbing silently into his chest.

 

“You’re safe, Pete. You’re safe. You’re here and I’m here. You’re safe.”

 

“I know,” Peter says, his voice shaky and hoarse with sobs. “I know, I know, I know. I’m sorry. I can’t help it. My brain won’t… I’m sorry. I can’t help it.”

 

“Shh. Hey, bud, it’s okay. We’re gonna get through this, Peter, I promise you, okay? You’re gonna get through this.”

 

“I’m so tired,” Peter sobs. “I want to sleep, but—but I _can’t do it._ I’m not gonna wake up, Mr. Stark. I have to—I can’t—”

 

“You can, bud. You can. It’s okay. You’re safe, I promise. Shh. You can sleep, Peter. I’m right here. I’ll be right here.”

 

“R—really?” Peter pulls away and blinks up at him with puffy red eyes.

 

“Yeah, kiddo,” Tony says, pushing a few stray curls back from his forehead. “If you need me, I’ll be here, okay? I’ll always be here for you. You can sleep now, Peter.”

 

Peter sobs again and Tony maneuvers them so the kid is lying more comfortably, his head in Tony’s lap. Peter’s hands wind around his waist as his sobs slowly weaken. Eventually, they morph entirely into soft, steady breathing, and Tony doesn’t even need to look to know that he’s asleep.

 

It took less than twenty minutes, and Tony wonders how many nights the kid has been forcing himself to stay awake. It aches to think about Peter lying awake all night, alone and scared.

 

He’s not going to miss any more signs. No way is he letting Peter suffer through this alone.

 

“I got you, kid,” he whispers, gently carding his hand through Peter’s hair. “I got you.”

 

\--

 

It’s cold in New York, almost winter now. Tony knows Peter loves this city, loves everything about it, but that doesn’t do much to stop the autumn chill from turning into something much more dangerous.

 

The cold didn’t used to feel this sinister.

 

Every day that Peter’s body gets stronger, the air gets colder, and Tony doesn’t want Peter to feel afraid of his city. He makes it his mission to make sure the chill never reaches Peter’s heart.

 

They came up with a solution together (with May’s help—what would either of them do without that woman?). Now, whenever Peter or Tony have a particularly bad day, all they have to do is text the little coffee cup emoji and they’ll meet up at a little café Peter likes near his school.

 

It’s usually Peter texting, but sometimes Tony just needs to see the kid and make sure he’s okay, and he’s rarely ashamed anymore of requesting their emergency meet-ups.

 

That day it was Peter.

 

It wasn’t an urgent meeting—they had a different signal for that—but Tony made sure to get there early so he and Peter’s usual order would be waiting for the kid when he got out of school.

 

The café was small and there usually weren’t a ton of people there, but they had half-decent scones and a warm atmosphere that Peter seemed to really love. The walls were painted a strange mustard yellow, but in the glow of the hanging lights, it actually made the whole place radiate warmth and comfort.

 

Tony was settled in their usual place near the back, the fireplace to his left, a bookshelf of used books to his right. If he timed it just right (and he could—genius, duh), they would bring out Peter’s hot chocolate with extra marshmallows and Tony’s coffee and they would be cooled the perfect amount to start drinking as soon as Peter sat down.

 

Their drinks had been on the table for three minutes now and Peter should be there any second.

 

As if on command, the bell above the café door jingles and Peter hurries over to their corner.

 

“Hey, kiddo.” Seeing Peter okay always lifts a weight off of his shoulders. He can’t stop himself from grinning.

 

Peter smiles back at him as he slides into the chair. “Hey, Mr. Stark.” He immediately takes a sip from his hot chocolate and wipes marshmallow fluff off of his lip with the back of his hand.

 

“How was school?”

 

“Not bad,” Peter says with a shrug. His expression is still light, which Tony is thankful for. There’s just a slight crinkle around his eyes that say something’s off.

 

“You want to talk about it?” Sometimes he doesn’t. That’s okay. He never pushes, just encourages.

 

Peter shrugs. “It… it really wasn’t anything too bad. I was at decathlon practice and I guess I got a lot of stuff right in a row, and Flash called me a freak.”

 

Tony felt his expression darken, and Peter catches on quickly.

 

“It’s not a big deal, Mr. Stark,” Peter says quickly. “Really. He was joking, you know? He didn’t even really mean it to be an insult. It was just a joke, really, and honestly not a big deal. At all. But, it still sort of brought some things back.”

 

After watching Peter nearly freeze to death, he sometimes forgets how their kidnappers treated Peter outside of the box. For three days, they called him “experiment,” and “spider,” and “it.” They tried to strip away his humanity. For god’s sake, they threw him in a dumpster.

 

Peter told him how they made him feel like nothing, that Tony speaking to him was the only thing that reminded him that he existed outside of the basement, that he was a real person, not a science experiment.

 

“You’re not a freak, Peter,” Tony says, laying a hand on Peter’s wrist.

 

“I know,” Peter says, and he smiles like he means it. “I know. I’ve just been stuck in that mindset for a couple hours and I wanted to snap out of it. So, here we are.”

 

“Yeah,” Tony says. “Well, I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it as many times as I need to: you’re a good kid, Pete, and I’m always going to be here for you.”

 

“Thanks. Honestly,” Peter says, blushing just slightly. “I feel better already. Thanks for meeting me, Mr. Stark.”

 

“Of course, kiddo,” Tony says. It’s routine. Peter always thanks him, even though Tony’s just happy the kid’s taking care of himself. “Anytime. So, how was school?”

 

“You already asked that.” Peter rolls his eyes with a grin.

 

“Well, you didn’t give me a very good answer! How was the math test?”

 

“Aced it,” Peter says.

 

“Knew you would.”

 

Their conversation turns natural, almost as if nothing had ever happened. The lively, enthusiastic light has returned to Peter's eyes and a smile lingers on Tony's face. It's not quite as simple as before. There are lasting effects and Tony knows they're going to weigh on them probably for years, but they're working on it. 

 

He'll work on it for the rest of his life if he has to.

 

And Peter's strong, possibly the strongest person he knows. He'll be okay. It doesn't matter if it takes a hundred sleepless nights helping the kid through his nightmares or a thousand mugs of hot chocolate after hard days, Tony will be there for all of it.

 

They're going to be okay.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks so much for reading! come talk to me in the comments or on my tumblr (ema--vee)!

**Author's Note:**

> ;)


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